New Year, Old Habits
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Pizza Pie 'verse – 4-year old Hurt Sam, 8-year old Big Brother Dean, Awesome Uncle Bobby, Grumpy Daddy John, Puppy Rumsfeld – Before midnight, John was going to listen. Because Bobby wasn't going to stand by and let a new year begin with old habits. The boys deserved better. And John needed to wake up before his unintentional negligence led to one of his kids getting hurt.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Pizza Pie 'verse – 4-year old Hurt Sam, 8-year old Big Brother Dean, Awesome Uncle Bobby, Grumpy Daddy John, Puppy Rumsfeld – Before midnight, John was going to listen. Because Bobby wasn't going to stand by and let a new year begin with old habits. The boys deserved better. And John needed to wake up before his unintentional negligence led to one of his kids getting hurt.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine.

**Warnings**: Just the usual language...

**A/N**: Happy (belated) New Year!

* * *

_What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know anymore. ~ Fun._

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"Did you hear me?" John prompted impatiently, sitting at the table and staring expectantly at Bobby as the older hunter poured coffee into his blue mug with the word _BOSS_ boldly printed on its side.

A mug that Karen had teasingly given him about a month before she had died.

A mug he drank from every morning because it made him smile at the inside joke that still lingered even today.

A mug he had washed by hand ever since her death to ensure nothing happened to it.

"Bobby..."

Bobby glanced at John, not surprised to see the younger hunter scowling at him. "Yeah, I heard you," he returned dryly, standing at the kitchen counter and inhaling the rich aroma of the freshly brewed coffee filling his cup.

God bless caffeine.

Amen.

John waited – one hand around his own coffee mug while the elbow of his other arm rested casually on the back of his chair – and then narrowed his eyes at Bobby when it seemed no further answer was forthcoming. "Well...?" he asked irritably.

Bobby shrugged, placing the coffee pot back inside its perch in the coffee maker and turning to lean against the counter, sipping from his mug before he spoke. "It's still the holidays, John," he pointed out in response to John's earlier question about a case; the same case the young hunter had asked about when he had first arrived at Singer Salvage the day before Christmas.

"It's New Year's Eve!" Sam added excitedly around his mouthful of cereal, as if he had a clue what that actually meant beyond getting to stay up late that night.

John sipped his coffee and rolled his eyes, not giving a damn what day it was; feeling restless and wanting to get back on the road now that his youngest was finally on the mend from the nasty chest cold the kid had caught a week ago.

Bobby ignored John's response and instead nodded at Sam. "That's right," he agreed with the pajama-clad four-year old and smiled as Sam leaned over in his chair to rub Rumsfeld's head as the puppy nuzzled the kid's sock-covered feet that swung back and forth under the table.

"Sam..." Dean called quietly and shook his head when his little brother looked at him; his tone warning the kid to _eat_, not play with the dog while his expression warned his brother to not speak again – the eight-year old seeming to sense the impending argument between John and Bobby and wanting to keep Sam quiet and out of the line of fire.

Sam frowned but sat up straighter in his chair, nervously glancing between his dad and his uncle before glancing back at Dean.

Dean smiled encouragingly and patted his brother's back. "Eat up," he told the four-year old as he gestured to the cereal quickly becoming soggy in the bowl. "If you don't eat your breakfast, you can't play outside," he commented casually, knowing the reminder of that deal-breaker would distract his brother from the mounting tension in the kitchen.

Sam's eyes widened at the potential threat; having been stuck in the house for the past week with congestion and fever and a chest-rattling cough and now desperately wanting to go outside like Dean had promised earlier when he had asked his brother even before he had gotten out of bed that morning.

"But I'm better," Sam insisted, although his voice was still a little hoarse and his cough a little stubborn to leave.

"I know," Dean agreed, thankful that statement was mostly true. "But a deal's a deal, Sammy. No breakfast, no parole."

Crossing from the kitchen counter to the table, Bobby chuckled quietly at Dean's description, as though Sam had been serving time in prison for the past week.

Of course to a sick four-year old who had primarily stayed in bed during that time, it had probably felt that way...even though the kid had enjoyed plenty of attention from his big brother and new puppy.

"And I think Rummy really wants to play with that Frisbee..." Dean added, further enticing his brother and glancing over his shoulder at the red plastic disc that had been waiting by the backdoor all week in preparation for a kid who finally felt well enough to truly play with a rambunctious puppy.

Sam followed Dean's gaze, eager to play with the Frisbee even though he had never thrown one before. "Do you think Rummy will really fetch it?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, glancing at the puppy still roaming around beneath the table. "But Bobby dug it out just for you," he further commented about the Frisbee and winked at his little brother when Sam beamed at him.

Sam then turned his attention to Bobby.

"You heard him," Bobby confirmed to the four-year old as he settled in his chair at the table; having forgotten to buy actual dog toys when he had first brought Rumsfeld home and figuring the old Frisbee would suffice until he could get back to town.

"It's from Boca Raton," Dean told his brother, and Sam tilted his head.

"Wow," the four-year old breathed, clearly having no idea where that actually was but being impressed just the same.

John sipped his coffee before lowering his mug and glancing over his shoulder at the plastic disc receiving so much discussion, curious about its origin. "Where did a hunter like you even get a Frisbee from Boca Raton?"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the snarky tone; having seen John's expression when the younger hunter had first read the faded white letters on the Frisbee earlier in the week and feeling amused that John was just now getting around to asking that question.

"I wasn't always a hunter," Bobby vaguely replied and quirked a fond smile at the memory of that summer he and Karen had escaped to Florida on a whim just for the hell of it.

Just to live in the moment; just to soak up the sun and to laugh when the residents and other vacationers of the affluent area had stared at them like they didn't belong.

"I don't think they like us here," Bobby had commented back then as they had lounged by the pool one afternoon.

Karen had followed his gaze to the gawkers on the opposite side of the pool. "Eh. Screw 'em," she had responded with a shrug and had grinned her delight in making others uncomfortable.

Bobby had chuckled. "You she-devil, you..."

Karen had laughed at his description of her as she had leaned over from her chair and had kissed him; had literally given him a taste of what would come later that evening.

But that had been years ago.

Bobby sighed and shook his head to scatter the memory, instead refocusing on the kids and their father sitting at his table.

"So, what about that case?" John asked, holding his mug between his hands as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table's scratched surface.

Bobby glared at John's tenacity. "What about it?" he returned as he sipped his own coffee – both men having favored a caffeine-only breakfast that morning because they were running low on food...and it was more important that the boys ate.

John glared back. "Bobby..."

Dean sighed at the growled name – hating what was coming – and meaningfully tapped the edge of Sam's cereal bowl with his own spoon as he continued to sit beside his brother; narrowing his eyes as the kid was once again leaning over in his chair to play with Rumsfeld.

At the sound of spoon against bowl, Sam paused mid-rub – his small hand hovering over the puppy's head – and glanced at Dean...then back at his bowl, wrinkling his nose at the soggy mess floating in the sugary milk.

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Sam sighed but obediently sat up and began eating again.

Dean nodded his approval and did the same; barely tasting his own cereal as he kept one eye on the approaching verbal storm brewing at both ends of the table and the other eye on his brother.

But Sam seemed oblivious to the argument about to break loose and proceeded to eat his cereal without complaint, continuing to happily swing his legs back and forth; his feet within inches of Rumsfeld's head as the puppy collapsed in a pudgy heap under the kid's chair.

There was an awkward beat of silence; only the sounds of spoons clinking against bowls and the squeak of Sam's chair as he swung his legs.

Back and forth...back and forth.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

The repetitive sound grating on John's already frayed nerves.

Back and forth...back and forth.

Squeak, squeak, _squeak_.

"Sam!" John barked; his tone low as he cut his eyes at his youngest. "Enough!"

Sam blinked at his father in response – startled and confused as to what he had done to deserve being yelled at – and then glanced at Dean for explanation as his brother pressed his foot against Sam's swinging legs in silent command to stop..._now_.

Delayed realization lit in Sam's eyes, and he squirmed in his chair. "Sorry," the four-year old offered shyly to John and then glanced again at Dean. "Sorry," he repeated suddenly on the verge of tears; lingering sickness and fatigue making him more sensitive than usual.

"It's okay," Dean assured quietly but kept his foot against Sam's legs as a reminder not to make any noise that would further irritate their already moody father.

Sam nodded, blinking against the tears and bravely twitching a small smile at his brother.

Because if Dean said it was okay...then it was.

Dean winked and then nodded at Sam's cereal.

Sam sighed shakily and began eating again.

Bobby clenched his jaw as he watched the interaction; the four-year old's misty eyes having only served to further piss him off in regards to John's temper.

Because if the kid had finally felt well enough to not only sit at the table but to also expend extra energy by swinging his legs, then let him.

Jesus...

Bobby sighed harshly before taking another sip of coffee, wishing he had made it Irish.

Because if anybody ever made Bobby want to drink, it was John Winchester.

"Bobby..." John began again, staring intently at the older hunter at the opposite end of the table. "I need an answer."

"I gave you an answer," Bobby evenly responded, not in the mood to deal with John's increasingly pissy attitude.

John narrowed his eyes.

"It's still the holidays," Bobby repeated, reminding John once again as he had done when they had first started this conversation.

John snorted. "So?" he countered, clearly tired of Bobby using that excuse to stall progress on a hunt.

Bobby glared as he set his coffee mug on the table. "So, I think the case can wait a couple more days."

John shook his head, nonverbally rejecting that suggestion. "Well, I don't," he further disputed and then paused. "Did you call Jim?"

It was Bobby's turn to sigh.

"Did you?" John pressed.

"Yeah," Bobby reluctantly replied.

"And...?" John impatiently prompted.

"Is he comin' to see us?" Sam asked suddenly; the four-year old's hurt feelings instantly forgotten at the mention of Jim's name; the kid always eager to see the Pastor, especially since their circle of friends and family was so incredibly tiny.

"No," Dean answered before either man could; the eight-year old having known John hadn't requested Bobby to call Jim for social reasons. "Not this trip."

"Oh," Sam replied, disappointment in his tone and expression. "He could meet Rummy if he came to see us," he added hopefully, glancing down at the black and tan puppy under his chair.

"He'll meet Rummy some other time," Dean assured and then nodded at the untouched glass sitting inches from where Sam's small hand rested on the table. "Drink your milk."

Sam wrinkled his nose. "There's milk in the cereal," he logically pointed out and gestured toward the now empty bowl.

Dean snorted at his smart little brother and then shrugged. "Fine," he allowed. "Guess I'll just be playin' with Rumsfeld outside by myself..."

Sam's eyes widened, but he said nothing more as he reached for his glass.

Dean quirked a satisfied smile and glanced at John.

John offered a brief nod of approval of Dean's handling of his brother and then redirected his attention to Bobby still sitting at the opposite end of the table. "What did Jim say when you called?"

"Didn't talk to him," Bobby informed, leaning back in his chair. "Left a message."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"And he hasn't called back?"

Bobby shook his head. "Nope."

John narrowed his eyes in further annoyance at no one seeming to take their jobs seriously anymore. "What the hell?"

"It's the holidays, and he's a preacher," Bobby dryly explained before pausing. "You figure it out."

John scowled at the implication that Jim was too busy right now to help him with this case...and Bobby was obviously too disinterested to give a shit either way. "What the hell's with you, Singer?"

Bobby arched an eyebrow at the challenge. "Could ask you the same," he returned; his laid back demeanor giving no hint of the heat of anger slowly burning through his veins. "It's the holidays, John. The one time of year when even you should be able to get your head out of your ass long enough to appreciate what you've got."

Bobby paused, glancing meaningfully at the two kids sitting together at the side of the table; Dean intently watching and listening to the conversation while Sam slurped his milk, only the kid's large eyes visible over the rim of the upturned cup.

John followed Bobby's gaze and then snapped his attention back to the older hunter; freshly annoyed at being so blatantly called out in front of his kids.

Freshly angered that despite still having his boys, the holidays had done nothing but royally suck since Mary had died.

Freshly pissed that his life – that _their_ lives – fucking sucked.

Every single day _fucking sucked_.

And the only way John knew how to fix that, how to get revenge for that was to pursue the hunt, was to chase after whatever had killed Mary...and then make that sonuvabitch pay whenever he finally caught it.

And he _would_ catch it eventually.

Why didn't anyone understand that?

Out of everyone, Bobby should.

But the older hunter didn't seem to...and it only served to further piss John off.

John clenched his jaw as rage swelled within; the pressure pushing against his ribcage and feeling as if his chest would literally explode.

"Fuck you, Singer," John spat sharply and promptly stood; his chair noisily scraping against the hardwood floor as he roughly pushed back from the table and left the kitchen without another word.

The backdoor slammed as John stormed out of the house, causing Rumsfeld to bark twice before once again settling under Sam's chair.

There was silence after that.

Bobby sighed, offering a strained smile to the kids staring at him; Sam's eyes impossibly larger than before...and Dean's eyes impossibly old for his age.

After several seconds, Sam was the first to speak. "Daddy said a bad word," he needlessly pointed out.

Dean sighed but said nothing, clearly bothered that it certainly wasn't the first time his four-year old brother had heard that word out of their dad's mouth.

"Yeah, well..." Bobby began. "Your daddy makes Uncle Bobby want to say bad words, too."

Dean snorted while Sam set his empty glass on the table and looked confused by Bobby's statement.

Bobby chuckled and shook his head. "Never mind," he told the four-year old and then leaned forward in his seat, unable to resist the urge to wipe away the kid's milk moustache.

Sam giggled and then rubbed his own hand across his lips. "Thanks, Uncle Bobby."

"Don't mention it," Bobby replied and then winked at the kid. "Maybe one day you can pay me back when I'm too old and senile to wipe _my_ mouth."

"Okay," Sam easily agreed, willing to do whatever Bobby needed both now...and later.

It unexpectedly warmed the old hunter's heart.

Sam turned to Dean, oblivious to the joy he had just given Bobby simply by being his sweet adorable self. "Can we go outside now?"

"In a minute..." Dean stalled and pushed back from the table, taking his bowl and Sam's with him to the sink before returning with his brother's medication from where he had brought it down earlier and had set it on the counter.

Sam wrinkled his nose. "Deeean. I don't wanna take that," he whined. "I'm better. I don't have a fever no more." He paused and lifted Dean's hand to his forehead. "See? I'm not hot."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Good for you," he returned dryly and ruffled the kid's floppy hair; the strands made even more disheveled by the way the four-year old had slept the night before. "But you're still taking this," he informed and expertly poured a dose of children's Tylenol into the small plastic cup.

Sam directed his attention to Bobby, batting his eyes. "Uncle Bobby..."

Bobby snorted at the four-year old's familiar ploy. "Don't look at me, squirt," he advised the kid and then nodded at Dean. "I think we both know who calls the shots with you."

Dean smiled and nodded proudly. "That's right, Sammy," he agreed, appropriately smug big brother shining in his tone and expression. "What I say goes. So drink up."

Sam sighed dramatically but accepted the medicine, downing the liquid with a grimace of distaste.

"Atta boy, kiddo," Dean praised his brother and patted Sam's back.

Sam's only response was to grab Dean's juice glass, since his own milk glass was empty, and take a big gulp to chase the medicine still coating his tongue and throat.

"Dude..." Dean admonished in mock disgust as he watched his brother. "That's _my_ glass."

Sam held the juice in his mouth – his cheeks puffed out on both sides – and nodded, a hint of little brother mischief shining in his eyes.

Bobby chuckled at the boys' antics. "Alright, you two..." he called and stood, crossing to the sink with his coffee mug and glancing out the kitchen window at John lifting the Impala's hood.

Dean joined him, standing at Bobby's elbow. "The holidays are hard for Dad," he needlessly reported and shrugged when Bobby looked at him, knowing the statement was a lame, roundabout apology for the way John had acted...but not knowing what else to say to excuse his father's behavior.

Bobby held Dean's gaze, saddened that the eight-year old felt he had to justify his dad's words and actions.

"What about you?" Bobby countered quietly; glancing over his shoulder to make sure Sam wasn't listening to their conversation and smiling briefly at the sight of the four-year old now sprawled on the floor beneath the table with Rumsfeld. "The holidays are hard for you, too," he continued.

Dean shrugged, following Bobby's gaze. "I've got Sammy," he replied, his tone conveying that as long as he had his little brother, everything else was tolerable. "But Dad – "

" – has got _both_ of you," Bobby reminded, keeping his tone gentle as he spoke to the well-meaning eight-year old even as he felt fresh anger burn under his skin.

Because John needed to _wake up_.

Dean nodded but said nothing, instead glancing out the window at John as his dad continued to lean under the Impala's hood.

Bobby sighed, trying to reign in his emotions; knowing it wasn't Dean's fault that John was an ass. The kid was only trying to defend his dad...because that's what good sons did.

Not that Bobby would know about that since he had always called a spade, a spade – and that had certainly applied to his own asshole father.

But Dean was a good kid trying to do the best he could by those he loved – both his dad and his little brother – and Bobby admired him, _respected_ him for it.

John on the other hand...

Bobby sighed again and directed his attention out the window as well.

John _did_ need to get his head out of his ass and appreciate what he had, especially with the New Year about to begin. What better resolution than to be a better father?

Bobby nodded in agreement with himself and then glanced at Dean, watching the kid as he continued to watch his father.

"Dad likes working on the Impala," Dean commented as he tracked John's path from the Chevy to the work table on the far side of the garage and then back again. "Seems to help sometimes." He paused. "And it's better than drinking..." he added more quietly.

Bobby swallowed at the implication and nodded, reminded once again of his own father and unable to stop himself from asking. "He never hits you, does he?"

Dean reacted as though _Bobby_ had slapped him; visibly startling at the question and then scowling up at the older hunter. "No," he snapped, clearly offended that Bobby would even suggest that. "Never."

Bobby nodded, relieved that Dean wasn't secretly reliving his own childhood in that regard; the old hunter having lost count over the years of how many times he had been knocked around by his own drunk father.

Bobby cleared his throat. "What about Sam? Has he ever – "

" – I would kill him," Dean interrupted, not even allowing Bobby to finish the question and not batting an eye at making such a threat against his dad.

The eight-year old unflinchingly serious in his threat.

And strangely enough, Bobby believed him.

No one – not even John – harmed Sam, especially without answering to Dean.

And that was that.

Bobby nodded again. "Good," he replied simply and let the issue drop.

There was a beat of awkward silence, thankfully shattered by a four-year old's delighted laughter as Rumsfeld playfully tugged on the hem of Sam's pajama pants.

Bobby and Dean both turned in response and simultaneously smiled, exhaling and allowing the sound of Sam's giggles to wash away their shared tension.

"Make him stop!" Sam yelled, pointing at the puppy still tugging on his clothes even as he continued to laugh. "Rummy! Stop!"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, if you weren't on the floor, then you wouldn't have this problem."

Sam shrugged and then gasped as Rumsfeld actually tugged hard enough to jerk him backwards.

"Whoa!" Dean blurted and immediately crossed to his brother, ducking under the table and squatting beside the kid now sprawled on his back. "Hey. You okay?" he asked anxiously, pushing away the puppy as Rumsfeld abandoned Sam's leg and tried to lick Sam's face now that the kid was fully down.

"Rummy!" Bobby called and crisply snapped his fingers. "Cut it out, mutt. Get over here."

Rumsfeld glanced at Bobby.

Bobby narrowed his eyes at the dog's hesitation to obey. "I ain't sayin' it again," he warned.

Rumsfeld seemed to sigh, giving a final lick to Sam's face before slowly approaching Bobby and sitting beside the old hunter's leg.

"That's more like it," Bobby grumbled and then turned his attention the boys. "He okay?" he checked with Dean.

Dean nodded, sitting his little brother up. "I think it just knocked the breath out of him," he reported and rubbed Sam's back. "But you're okay. Right, kiddo?"

Sam nodded and then coughed harshly.

Dean frowned.

"I'm okay," Sam quickly assured, even as he coughed once more.

Dean stared at his brother but nodded tightly; knowing the sudden rush of air out of Sam's lungs...and then back in...was probably the reason for the kid's renewed coughing spell.

But still...Dean didn't like it.

"I'm okay," Sam repeated at Dean's intense gaze. "Can we go outside now?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I guess," Dean reluctantly allowed. "But not like that," he pointed out, vaguely waving at Sam still dressed in his pajamas. "I want you bundled up."

...which was spoken like the mother hen Dean was when it came to Sam.

Bobby chuckled, knowing the eight-year old was serious and would personally layer Sam with clothing until he was satisfied the four-year old wouldn't catch a chill while playing in the snow.

"The last thing I need is for you to get sick again..." Dean continued to fuss as he eased out from under the table and then pulled Sam out as well, lifting the kid to his feet. "You hear me?"

Sam nodded obediently. "I don't wanna be sick again," he agreed and then coughed.

"Well, that makes two of us..." Dean assured. "'Cause I don't want you sick again, either."

"Make that _three_ of us," Bobby added and winked at the boys when they both turned to look at him.

There was a pause.

"Uncle Bobby, what's for dinner?"

Dean pulled a face at his brother's question. "Dude, we just finished breakfast, and you're already asking about dinner?"

"Must be learning from you..." Bobby commented and then chuckled when Dean playfully scowled.

"I was just wondering," Sam defended, holding out his hand to Rumsfeld as the puppy once again approached.

"I don't know," Bobby admitted. "Hadn't really thought about it. But I need to make a supply run 'cause we're fresh out of almost everything around here. You two are eating me out of house and home," he teased good-naturedly.

But he wouldn't have it any other way.

The boys smiled.

"Can we have tacos?" Sam asked shyly, glancing at Dean for his approval and then back to Bobby. "Please?"

"Hmm, I don't know..." Bobby hummed, pretending to consider rejecting the request, when truthfully Sam could have practically anything he wanted.

Bobby Singer was a sucker for cute kids...especially _these_ kids.

Sam's eyes widened as Bobby stalled. "Please?" he repeated and stepped closer to the old hunter, blinking up at him.

"Ah, geez..." Dean muttered and shook his head at his brother, the one-trick pony. "That doesn't always get you everything you want, Sammy," he reminded the four-year old, even as Sam continued to engage the mysterious power of those huge eyes of his.

Bobby chuckled. "It does today," he informed and ruffled Sam's hair. "Tacos it is."

"Yay!" Sam exclaimed, hopping a little in his excitement.

"Yay!" Bobby echoed and then chuckled at himself for how foolish these boys could make him act.

But he didn't care.

Unlike John, he knew exactly how precious these two kids were, and he intended to enjoy every single second he was lucky enough to have with them.

"You hear that, Dean?" Sam checked, crossing back to his brother with Rumsfeld on his heels. "We're having tacos for dinner!"

Dean rolled his eyes, even as he was excited as well. Because he loved tacos...and no one's tacos compared to Bobby's, especially not those fast food tacos he usually had to eat when they were on the road.

Dean grimaced at just the thought of them.

"Tacos!" Sam announced again and grabbed Rumsfeld's head; his small hands on either side of the puppy's face. "Do you like tacos, Rummy?"

"We're not gonna find out," Bobby informed quickly, having no desire to see what such food would do to a puppy's digestive track.

Dean laughed, knowing Bobby's thoughts.

Sam shrugged. "Sorry, Rummy."

Rumsfeld wagged his tail.

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean sighed and looped his arm around Sam's neck, playfully shaking his brother. "You ready to get dressed?"

"So we can go outside?"

"Well, duh..." Dean responded.

Sam scowled but then smiled. "Race you!"

Dean blinked as Sam suddenly took off for the stairs with Rumsfeld close behind; both four-year old kid and seven-week old puppy stumbling up the steps.

"We beat you!" Sam called down several seconds later.

Dean rolled his eyes.

Bobby chuckled.

"Dean!" Sam yelled down the stairs when his brother didn't respond. "You comin'?"

"Yeah, Sam. Hang on a sec," Dean urged and then glanced at Bobby as the old hunter crossed to the door. "You leaving?"

"Yeah," Bobby confirmed, grabbing his coat from one of the hooks on the wall and slipping it on. "I figure if I leave now, I'll hopefully be back by lunch." He paused, digging the list he made earlier from his pocket and jotting down taco ingredients with the pen he snagged from the magnetic fridge notepad. "You need anything?

Dean didn't hesitate. "More children's Tylenol. And soft tacos are better for Sam, so get those roll-up shell things."

Bobby quirked a smile at Dean's description, nodding as he wrote down "tortillas" along with the requested medicine. "Anything else?"

"I want Sam to have soup for lunch," Dean informed. "It's good for him when he's been sick. He likes those chicken and stars."

Bobby nodded, continuing to write on his list and knowing exactly which kind of soup Dean was talking about. "Got it. Anything else?"

Dean paused and then shrugged. "I don't think so."

"Alright," Bobby replied, once again scanning his list. "You boys don't stay out too long," he called to Dean as the eight-year old approached the steps. "Fresh air is good for Sam since he's been cooped up, but not too much. Don't want him to – "

" – Bobby," Dean interrupted, glancing over his shoulder but saying nothing more; his tone and expression saying it all – that he had been taking care of Sam since the kid was an infant and that he knew damn well when to bring the kid in from the snow to keep him from getting sick again.

Seriously.

Bobby chuckled. "Sorry. I just worry about you boys."

Dean nodded his understanding, used to a certain amount of mother henning from Bobby...and secretly admitting that it felt good to be openly worried about.

John never really seemed worried about anything, except the next hunt.

Dean sighed, inwardly shaking himself; having learned long ago that it was useless to allow his mind to wander to such places; that pity parties were lame and distracting.

And Dean didn't have time to be distracted – not when he had a little brother to take care of.

As if on cue, Sam yelled down the stairs. "Dean!"

Dean glanced up the steps at the sound of his brother's voice and smiled, instantly reminded of what really mattered in his life – Sammy.

"Dean! C'mon!"

Bobby snorted at the four-year old's impatience. "Better move your ass. Sammy's waitin'."

Dean scoffed. "He can wait," he responded dryly, even as he began climbing the stairs.

"Mmhmm," Bobby replied knowingly and shook his head, wondering if Dean ever really thought he was fooling anybody...especially when it came to Sam. "See you later," he called to the eight-year old and then exited the house in a gust of wind, not even glancing in John's direction as he carefully descended the porch steps and began scraping the ice and snow from the windshield of his truck.

Several minutes later, Bobby was behind the wheel in the slowly warming cab and heading to town; smiling as he caught glimpse in his rearview of a bundled-up Sam holding the red Frisbee and appearing on his back porch, followed by Rumsfeld and Dean.

"You boys have fun," Bobby told them, dividing his attention between the road and his rearview; already eager to return from his errands, so maybe he would have time to play with the kids before lunch; feeling certain Dean wouldn't allow Sam out again after they ate but would insist the kid take a nap in the afternoon.

That would be a fun battle of wills to watch.

Bobby chuckled and shook his head.

Speaking of a battle of wills...

Bobby's expression darkened at the thought of John and at the memory of what had happened over breakfast; wondering what it would take for the young father to realize that in his constant pursuit of the next hunt to bring him closer to getting revenge for Mary's death, he was missing out on the most precious thing Mary could have ever left him – his boys.

A four-year old and an eight-year old who were essentially growing up without him.

It was heartbreaking and infuriating, and Bobby had had enough.

Before midnight, John was going to listen...whether the stubborn sonuvabitch wanted to or not.

Because Bobby wasn't going to stand by and let a new year begin with old habits.

The boys deserved better.

And John needed to wake up before his unintentional negligence led to one of his kids getting hurt.

Bobby nodded in agreement with himself and then sighed harshly as his truck bounced from the snow-covered gravel path of his driveway to the equally snow-covered asphalt of the highway.

"Balls," he muttered at the treacherous driving conditions that greeted him and shook his head in annoyance.

But...whatever.

Bobby had driven in worse, and he wasn't going to turn back now.

The trip would just take longer than he had anticipated.

But that was fine.

Because snow or not, he had to get to the grocery store.

After all, he had tacos to serve tonight.

Bobby chuckled at the memory of Sam's excitement and at the knowledge that Dean was secretly just as excited.

"That's my boys..." Bobby commented fondly and focused on the road.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

John sometimes forgot that he had been a mechanic before he had been anything else; before he had been a Marine...and then had become a husband and a father...and then a widower and a hunter.

Before any of that – before life had irreparably changed him, before the family business had become something quite different – John had been a mechanic from a family of mechanics; had known his way around vehicles better than even Bobby; had been at ease and completely in his element whenever he was stained with grease and elbow-deep in engine parts.

And to some extent, that was true even all these years later after everything that had happened – John feeling strangely content and at peace when he was under the hood of the Impala...or under the entire damn car, like he was now.

John twitched a smile, standing beneath his classic Chevy hoisted up on one of the lifts in Bobby's garage and feeling vaguely happy...maybe even momentarily wishing that _this_ was his life – that he had nothing more important to do on a Thursday morning than to work on his car while his kids played nearby.

That was certainly the life he had been robbed of four years ago; that his _boys_ had been robbed off.

And the reminder freshly pissed John off.

Because they should be back at their house in Lawrence; he should be looking forward to kissing his wife at midnight; the boys should be excited about the special meal their mom would make and about the sparklers they would all light in the backyard to celebrate the New Year.

But no...

That life was gone.

_Mary_ was gone.

All of it burned in a supernatural blaze that made John _so fucking angry_ every time he thought about it; made it nearly impossible to focus on anything except revenge, except making something hurt as badly as he did every day of his life.

_That_ was what John lived for now – killing the sonuvabitch that had taken _everything _from him.

John clenched his jaw at the thought; the resulting swell of emotions expressed through action as his wrist began to ache from how roughly he was twisting the socket wrench above his head as he continued to work on the Impala from beneath the car's chassis.

But John ignored the pain, instead allowing the repetitive movement of the tool to help him focus as he mentally outlined the plan for the rest of the day.

Reminding himself of the research still needed to be done on the case and hoping Jim would return Bobby's call from earlier, especially since John was depending on the pastor's help.

Because Bobby sure as hell didn't seem interested in helping with either the research or the execution of this hunt...and that only served to piss John off even more.

After all, people were _dying_.

What didn't Bobby understand about that?

John shook his head in annoyance, sighing harshly as he remembered the heated words he and the older hunter had exchanged an hour ago across the breakfast table with two kids as their audience.

Every word heard, every action observed.

John could only imagine how the conversation had continued after he had left the kitchen...but it had probably started with Sam saying something about him swearing since the four-year old loved to point that out lately.

Dean had probably said nothing...but then had ended up defending him to Bobby.

And Bobby had clearly still been pissed from the way the older hunter had left the house and had gotten in his truck without so much as a glance in John's direction as he had headed to town on a supply run earlier.

Not long after Bobby had left, the boys had appeared on the porch with that stupid dog and had been playing in the snow-covered yard ever since.

John could hear them over his shoulder calling back and forth to each other while he worked under the Impala.

The high-pitched voice of a four-year old, the slightly lower pitch of an answering eight-year old, and the sharp barks of an excited puppy mixed in.

John smiled at the sounds, the expression widening as Sam laughed about something, and then sighed again; his smile slipping at the thought of his boys having witnessed how he had acted that morning, feeling a twinge of disappointment in himself that his kids often saw him at his worst day after day.

_That_ would piss _Mary_ off...along with the fact that John routinely let the F-bomb fly in front of their four-year old...and snapped at both boys for no reason...and sometimes couldn't even remember entire days because he would drink himself unconscious, relying on Dean to not only look after himself but to take care of his little brother, too.

And then there were all the times John would just leave the boys alone at a motel for days...sometimes even weeks.

Not to mention the missed birthdays and empty promises and all the times he told them he would be there...but never was.

It was no wonder that Sam sometimes treated John like a stranger and rarely sought him for comfort but instead always went directly to Dean.

And it was no wonder that Dean had become fiercely protective not only of his brother but of his role in Sam's life, often refusing John's help and taking care of the four-year old by himself.

_Because John was never there. _

"God, you suck..." John told himself, continuing to twist the hell out of that socket wrench while his quiet voice, sharp with disgust, berated himself for what a piss-poor father he was.

...which meant maybe Bobby had a point about him getting his head out of his ass.

He probably did.

John huffed a laugh at the smugly satisfied expression Bobby would wear if the older hunter could hear him confess that Bobby was right.

But Bobby _was_ right – at least about this – and John knew he should get his shit together and start being more of a father and less of a drill sergeant preparing his kids for war.

There would be time for that later when the boys weren't eight- and four-years old.

_Now_ was the time to cherish his kids while they were still kids.

Everything else could wait its fucking turn.

John nodded in agreement with himself but then frowned as his thoughts unexpectedly turned to the current hunt.

The one that had been postponed due to Sam's illness and Bobby's refusal to work over the holidays; the one that had haunted him daily over the past week as his youngest had slowly recovered and the holidays had finally passed.

But even now a week later, Bobby was still dragging ass and refusing to help while John just needed closure on the case; just needed to hunt today and be a better father tomorrow; just needed...

"Heads up!" the familiar voice of his oldest called out, and John instinctively moved, simultaneously ducking and side-stepping and thus avoiding the red Frisbee hurling itself into the garage like a rogue ninja star.

"What the hell...?" John blurted as the plastic disc collided with a pegboard on the far wall before dropping to the concrete floor and taking a few previously hanging tools with it.

John stared at the Frisbee as the socket wrench hung loosely in his grip and then directed his attention to the two kids now standing at the edge of the garage with a chubby black and tan puppy between them.

"Sorry," Sam immediately apologized, the four-year old looking twice his normal size from the layers of clothes he was currently wearing to compensate for his thin coat.

And John knew exactly who had bundled the kid up like that – Dean.

The thought made John feel uncharacteristically sappy; the idea that his oldest had patiently dressed Sam just like Mary would've done before allowing the four-year old outside in the snow; the need for extra warmth and protection especially important since the kid had been sick and feverish up until two days ago.

Even now signs of Sam's illness lingered, and John frowned as his youngest coughed.

"M'okay," Sam assured, coughing again and then smiling shyly at his father before pointing a gloved finger to the corner of the garage. "It got away from me," he explained about the errant Frisbee, as if the plastic disc was an unruly pet off its leash.

"Got away from you?" John repeated.

Sam nodded. "Yep," he confirmed, his pink-cheeked face barely visible from the scarf Dean had wrapped around his neck and the beanie that had been pulled down over his head.

Dean snorted at his brother's explanation, rubbing the back of his gloved hand across his forehead and then straightening the edge of his own beanie. "It only got away from you 'cause you suck at throwing it," he informed, the truth delivered in blunt big brother fashion.

Sam glared at Dean's brutally honest appraisal of his Frisbee-throwing skills. "Nuh-uh."

"Uh-huh," Dean returned, gesturing toward the downed Frisbee in the garage corner as proof.

But Sam remained in denial. "Nuh-uh."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh."

"Nuh – "

" – boys..." John interrupted, his tone edgy since he was not in the mood to hear those two words exchanged between his kids for the next five minutes.

Sam and Dean instantly hushed, staring at their dad and blinking in unison.

Rumsfeld blinked at him as well from where the puppy continued to stand between the brothers.

John shook his head, both irritated and amused. "Listen..." he began, crossing to the corner of the garage to retrieve the Frisbee as Rumsfeld belatedly spied it as well and clumsily ran over to it.

John paused, allowing the dog to fetch.

Sam beamed as the puppy sank his needle-sharp teeth into the plastic disc. "Good boy, Rummy!" he praised as Rumsfeld proudly trotted back toward the brothers. "Did you see that? He got it! He fetched it!"

Dean shrugged as his brother looked up at him. "Well, _that's_ what happens when the Frisbee actually ends up on the ground and not on top of a car or truck or – "

" – you hush your mouth," Sam interrupted with a scowl, using the phrase he had picked up while watching one of Bobby's favorite afternoon shows on television.

Dean laughed at the four-year old glaring at him with his hands now on his hips; his brother looking like pissed off marshmallow from all the layers the kid was wearing.

Sam's glared intensified. "It's not funny," he insisted, accepting the Frisbee from Rumsfeld as the puppy dropped it at his feet. "I've never thrown one of these before."

Dean shook his head, because _that's_ not what he was laughing at.

Rumsfeld barked.

John sighed, his patience quickly thinning. "Boys..." he called and waited for his kids to look at him again. "Play with that thing further out in the yard away from the garage," he told them, motioning in the direction he wanted them to go. "If that Frisbee ends up in here again and hits me or the Impala..."

John allowed his voice to fade, knowing neither of his boys needed him to elaborate on the unpleasant consequences such a scenario would produce.

And he was right – they didn't.

The boys' moods instantly changed.

Sam blinked wide-eyed, shifting nervously beside Dean as he glanced at his brother.

Dean nodded at John's order to play further out in the yard, remembering all too well what had happened at breakfast and not wanting to further annoy their dad...and thus further provoke John's temper.

The morning had already been tense enough without ruining the rest of the day, too.

That's why Dean had made sure he and Sam gave John his space and had stayed away from the garage until now.

But in addition to being poorly thrown by a four-year old, the Frisbee had also been swept away by a gust of crisp winter wind which had launched it straight into the garage's far wall a few minutes ago.

What else were they supposed to have done but come get it?

Rumsfeld barked again, the puppy wanting Sam to throw the Frisbee he held.

"Shh..." Sam scolded, not wanting the dog to get them all in trouble.

John held his Dean's gaze. "Did you hear me?"

Dean nodded once more. "Yes, sir," he confirmed, knowing the responsibility was his; that he would be held accountable if their playing interrupted John's work again.

"Good," John replied and gestured toward the snow-covered yard behind them, the socket wrench twisting around in his hand with the motion.

Dean sighed. "Come on, Sammy..." he urged, grabbing the kid's hand – glove against glove – and leading his little brother away from the garage, being sure to walk slowly so Sam's short legs could trudge through the thick snow.

Rumsfeld eagerly followed, the puppy jumping in the snow and biting at the white powder sprayed into the air by his giant paws.

Sam laughed at the dog's antics, instantly forgetting John's unwarranted sternness with them seconds before.

Dean wished he could forget as easily.

But John being an ass for no reason always pissed him off...and that seemed especially true these days - Dean seeming to notice more of their dad's not-so-nice qualities the older he got and not being quite as forgiving of John's flaws as he had been when he was younger.

Dean sighed, willing himself to let it go and to let Sam cheer him up just by being Sam.

It didn't take long.

Sam laughed again. "You're silly!" he called to Rumsfeld as the puppy snatched the Frisbee from his grasp and ran ahead of them. "Don't you think he's silly?" the four-year old asked, glancing at Dean as they walked.

Dean shook his head. "No," he countered seriously. "_You're_ silly," he told his little brother, pausing for effect. "Silly _looking_."

"Nuh-uh," Sam returned, bumping his shoulder into Dean's arm as he giggled. "_You_ are."

Dean laughed as well, feeling slightly lighter than before, and then halted their steps; pulling Sam to a stop beside him as he glanced behind them to gauge whether or not they had walked far enough away from the garage to start playing again.

The wind blew sharp and biting.

"Oooo...it's cooooold," Sam needlessly reported, both his tone and his accompanying performance overly dramatic as he shook all over as if to prove his point.

"Mmhmm," Dean agreed distractedly, even as his arm also shook from Sam's movement since the four-year old still held his hand.

There was a pause.

"Do you think Daddy's cold?"

Dean shook his head, still looking over his shoulder at John in the garage. "Nah," he responded, because their dad never seemed bothered by the weather.

"He's not wearing a coat," Sam pointed out.

...which was true – John having stormed out of the house earlier without grabbing his coat.

Their dad probably having been too warmed by the heat of anger to have noticed the South Dakota chill in the air.

But even now an hour later John didn't seem to notice the frigid temperatures or the wind that had turned both boys' cheeks pink.

"He's not wearing a coat," Sam repeated as if he thought Dean hadn't heard him the first time.

Dean shrugged. "He's fine."

Because when you were a badass hunter like their dad, you didn't need a stinkin' coat.

You laughed in the face of weather - no matter what it was - and still got the job done, still kicked ass and took names.

Dean quirked a smile at his inner dialogue, sometimes confused how he could deeply resent his dad one minute...and then idolize him the next.

There was another pause.

"Why is Daddy mad all the time?"

Dean blinked at the unexpected question, belatedly realizing that Sam had followed his gaze and was currently staring at John as well; the four-year old watching as their dad had resumed working under the Impala in the garage.

"Dean..."

"He's not mad _all_ the time," Dean corrected his brother, because that was true.

Sometimes they had fun with their dad.

Just today wasn't one of those days.

And Dean understood that.

He knew the holidays were hard for John because they were hard for _him_, too.

After all, Dean missed his mom just as much as John missed his wife.

_Just as much. _

Every single day...and _especially_ during the holidays.

Dean missed the special shopping trips and the parades; he missed helping his mom decorate the house and wrap presents; he missed baking cookies and singing songs; he missed listening to stories and going to bed every night with hugs and kisses and whispered _I love yous_.

And although Sam gave him hugs and kisses and all the love a four-year old could possibly give, it still wasn't the same.

Dean still missed his mom.

But that was hard for Sam to understand, the kid having no memory of Mary beyond the few stories he had heard and even fewer photos he had seen.

Because Sam's first Thanksgiving...first Christmas...first New Year's...first birthday...practically first _everything_ had been without Mary.

So, Sam didn't understand why the holidays hurt, why _every day_ hurt.

He didn't get the huge, gaping hole that had been left behind when Mary had been snatched out of their lives because for Sam, _Dean_ had filled that hole.

Dean had fed him and changed him and rocked him and sang to him and comforted him and been everything to Sam that Mary was supposed to have been.

The kid had never missed a beat without their mom being there.

And if he had...if Sam had somehow noticed that their mom had suddenly vanished when he was six-months old, that memory was long gone.

There was no lingering hurt.

Sam knew they didn't have a mom, but he was mostly fine with that because he had Dean.

The four-year old had his big brother to help him and hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

But who did Dean have?

Who comforted _Dean_ and told him that everything was going to be okay?

Certainly not John...

Dean swallowed against the sudden urge to cry, reminding himself that he was too old for that; that it was okay for Sam to cry because Sam was just a baby.

But Dean was eight-years old and needed to suck it up and be strong.

Because like it or not, their mom was gone.

_This_ was their life now – him and Sam against the world with their dad around only sometimes.

And that was fine.

As long as Dean's life included Sam, everything was fine...everything would _be_ fine.

Dean sighed shakily, trying to pull himself together as he was well aware that Sam was staring at him.

"Dean..." Sam called quietly, his eyes wide and concerned as he blinked up at his brother in the silence that had settled between them. "Dean..." he called again, squeezing Dean's hand from where Dean still held his smaller hand within his larger grasp. "It's okay."

The four-year old not knowing what else to say.

But Sam knew that Dean was upset about something and so he repeated to Dean what Dean always told him whenever he was upset.

"It's okay," Sam assured once more and then smiled. "Okay?"

Dean laughed wetly and tried to return the smile, his heart so full of love for this scrawny little four-year old trying to comfort him even though Sam didn't know what was wrong and couldn't fully understand.

"It's okay," Sam said again as if those two words were magic, not knowing how they worked but knowing they always made him feel better whenever Dean murmured them over and over.

"Yeah," Dean finally agreed when he knew he could speak without his voice cracking from suppressed emotion and nodded at the kid standing beside him. "It's okay, Sammy."

And it would be.

Dean just needed to distract himself and focus on what always made him happy – his little brother.

Dean further nodded his agreement and sighed, feeling more in control and less like an emotional girl.

Sam smiled, having known those two magic words would work if he repeated them enough. "All better!" he announced at Dean's obviously improved mood and jerked his hand away from his brother's grasp.

Dean frowned and then blinked as Sam quickly wrapped his arms around him in a celebratory hug.

"Dude, get off of me..." Dean complained, though his tone held nothing but affection for the runt currently squeezing him around his waist. "Hey. You ready to play?" the eight-year old asked.

Sam nodded eagerly – his beanie-covered head moving as it briefly rested on Dean's chest – and then pushed away from his brother as he looked around the yard for Rumsfeld, calling to the puppy digging in the snow on the far side of the yard.

Rumsfeld instantly responded, bounding through the snow as he ran toward the brothers.

Sam giggled. "Good boy," he praised, rubbing the puppy's head.

Dean smiled as well, reaching to pull the zipper higher on Sam's coat. "Aright..." he sighed, glancing around the yard. "I think this is far enough away."

Sam nodded his agreement, looking back at the garage where John was still working under the Impala. "I hope I don't hit Daddy with the Frisbee."

Dean cringed at the thought. "Yeah. I hope not, either."

Because that wouldn't be pleasant for anybody.

Dean shook himself. "Anyway..." he dismissed, refusing to allow their dad's crappy mood to further affect his. "You want me to show you again?" he asked, gesturing toward the Frisbee that Rumsfeld had failed to bring back to them when the puppy had taken it from Sam's grasp earlier.

Sam nodded, the fringe of his hair sticking out in all directions from beneath the edge of his beanie.

He was adorable.

"Be right back," Sam called over his shoulder and ran to retrieve the Frisbee.

Rumsfeld followed.

Snow flew in all directions as it was scattered by a four-year old kid and seven-week old puppy racing each other.

Dean smiled as he waited.

"Okay..." Sam breathed when he returned with the Frisbee in hand, holding it out of Rumsfeld's reach as the puppy jumped for it and coughing as the burst of exertion in the cold weather freshly irritated his recovering lungs.

Dean frowned. "You okay?"

Sam nodded wordlessly as he continued to cough. "M'okay," he finally assured his brother and smiled even as another cough threatened to erupt.

"Okay..." Dean reluctantly agreed, readjusting Sam's scarf around the kid's neck. "But remember – you tell me if you start feeling bad again..."

"I know," Sam obediently responded.

Dean nodded, believing Sam would be honest with him but not liking the way his big brother sixth sense was starting to tingle.

"Alright..." Dean sighed, tugging at the edge of Sam's beanie to fully cover the kid's ears before stepping behind his brother and wrapping his arms around the four-year old, gently grasping the wrist of Sam's hand that was currently holding the Frisbee.

Rumsfeld barked in anticipation, having witnessed this routine before as Dean had tried...and tried...and _tried_ to teach Sam how to throw the red plastic disc for the first hour that they had been outside that morning.

"Ready?" Dean checked, glancing down at Sam standing in front of him; the kid's back against his stomach since the four-year old was still so small compared to his big brother.

"Ready," Sam replied and bit his lower lip in concentration, determined to get it right this time.

"Okay. Here we go..." Dean warned and guided his brother's arm in one fluid motion. "Now!" he commanded at the precise moment Sam needed to release his grip on the Frisbee.

And away it went, sailing effortlessly through the air and landing softly at the opposite end of the yard.

Rumsfeld chased after it, excitedly growling as he launched himself at the Frisbee; pinning the red disc to the snow-covered ground with his front paws before picking it up with his mouth and proudly bringing it back to the boys.

Sam clapped as he hopped in place. "That was fun!"

Dean smiled, pleased that his brother was happy. "Wanna do it again?"

"Yes!" Sam responded, his tone implying that he wanted to do it again...and again...and again.

Dean chuckled.

"Help me one more time?" Sam asked, taking the Frisbee from Rumsfeld's mouth and wiping the resulting slobber across the front of his coat.

Dean wrinkled his nose – because _he_ would be the one who had to clean that coat later...along with those gloves.

"One more time?" Sam asked again.

Dean nodded at his brother. "One more time," he allowed. "And then you're gonna do it by yourself, okay?"

Sam looked nervous and doubtful, clearly not liking that plan.

Because the last time he had thrown the Frisbee by himself, the plastic disc had ended up in the garage...and they had ended up in trouble.

Dean quirked a smile, knowing his brother's thoughts. "It'll be fine. You can do it," he encouraged, determined that there was no way he was going to let Sam grow up without knowing how to throw a damn Frisbee by himself.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

The bundled-up four-year old growled his frustration as he watched the Frisbee he had just thrown swerve sharply to the right and then float down to rest on the snow-dusted hood of an old clunker at the far side of the yard.

Just like it had done each time Sam had thrown it by himself.

The past two hours repeating the same routine.

The only difference being that the Frisbee didn't land on the same vehicle twice.

After all, the red plastic disc had plenty of cars and trucks to choose from in the white-powdered wonderland of Singer Salvage.

And this time, it had chosen a 1957 Chevy truck whose red paint had long ago been replaced by a coat of rust and was now covered with a coat of white snow as well.

Rumsfeld paced at the truck's bumper and barked his own displeasure at the morning's game not going quite as planned since he was once again unable to reach the Frisbee meant for him to fetch.

The four-year old kid growled again, his small gloved hands fisting by his sides. "I don't understand," Sam whined, stomping through the ankle-deep snow covering the yard at Bobby's house. "What am I doin' wrong?"

"Apparently everything," Dean answered dryly, beginning to lose patience and interest in showing his little brother how to throw the Frisbee.

Because this was ridiculous; they had been throwing the damn thing for over two hours and Sam _still_ hadn't gotten the hang of it.

Dean sighed as he walked in the same direction as Sam, reaching the truck seconds before the four-year old. "You're smart, Sammy," he told his brother. "But I think we might've finally found something you ain't good at."

Sam scowled at Dean's comment. "I threw it just like you showed me," he countered irritably, as if the reason why he wasn't having success with the Frisbee was because Dean wasn't teaching him correctly.

Dean snorted at the implication. "Right," he agreed sarcastically. "That's why when _I_ throw it, it ends up on the ground like it's supposed to so Rummy can get it. But when _you_ throw it, it ends up on a truck...or god knows where."

Only thank god it hadn't ended up in the garage again.

Dean glanced across the yard at the thought, freshly thankful that while the Frisbee had wandered all over everywhere else, it had steered clear of John and the Impala.

...which meant their dad was still contentedly working beneath the classic Chevy suspended in the air on one of Bobby's lifts.

Dean watched John for several seconds, knowing their dad wasn't completely ignoring them because he had seen John glance in their direction more than once over the past two hours.

But that had been it – just glances.

No words of encouragement to a frustrated four-year old.

No offers of help to an eight-year old whose patience was thinning.

No requests to join them as they played with Rumsfeld in the snow.

Just quick glances to make sure they were still there on the far side of the salvage yard and then John would refocus on the Impala.

...which was fine, Dean guessed.

After all, the eight-year old knew that the car was important; that the Chevy had to stay in good shape because it took them places and even gave them shelter on those nights when they weren't at Bobby's house and couldn't find a motel.

Or at least, that's what they would always tell Sam – that they couldn't find a motel.

But most of the time when they had to sleep overnight in the Impala it was because they couldn't _afford _a motel...and Dean knew it though John had never said it.

So, Dean would always nod and play along; would assure Sam they would be okay – _it's only for the night, Sammy_ – and would tell the four-year old it was an adventure – _like camping._

Though Dean would have to think of a better comparison soon because Sam had started replying that he didn't like camping.

And who could blame the kid?

Spending the night in the Impala on the back roads of nowhere wasn't an exciting adventure; it was a cold and sometimes scary necessity.

Dean sighed, thinking of all the nights he had tucked Sam against his side, having wrapped his own coat around the kid, and then had held his little brother close so their body heat would multiply and they wouldn't freeze in the backseat.

All those nights Dean had whispered stories to Sam to make the four-year old laugh and to soothe the kid's fears until Sam had fallen asleep...

All those nights Dean had only lightly dozed as he had listened to John restlessly shift in the front seat...

All those nights Dean had held Sam even tighter to remind himself that he wasn't alone even though he missed their old home and their old life – and their mom...

All those nights Dean had wished they were at Bobby's.

Dean twitched a sad smile, thankful they were at the old hunter's house now and would stay at least one more night before the holidays were officially over and they would have to hit the road again.

The eight-year old was also thankful that Sam would have a home-cooked meal for dinner – _tacos!_ – and that he and his little brother would go to sleep that night side-by-side, not in the Impala's backseat but both warm and safe in comfortable beds.

And not only comfortable beds, but comfortable beds with personalized linens – Batman-themed sheets for Dean...and Superman-themed sheets for Sam; both of which had been a second Christmas surprise for the brothers, compliments of Uncle Bobby.

Of course, Rumsfeld had been the _first_ Christmas surprise provided by the old hunter when they had first arrived a week ago.

And although Dean had initially been suspicious of the dog – as he was of most new things – the big brother had to agree that the puppy had been good for Sam.

Dean quirked a smile at the thought of the pudgy black and tan puppy – the same puppy continuing to bark at the Frisbee still resting on the hood of the rusted truck – and then glanced again at John in the garage.

Their dad's back was to them now, and Dean guessed he should be glad that John seemed occupied and happy and wasn't yelling at them.

Only the eight-year old couldn't help but momentarily wish that their dad _was_ playing with him and Sam and Rumsfeld in the snow.

Because that would be kinda cool...and fun...and Sam would really like it; would help prove to the kid that John wasn't mad all the time, that their dad could play and relax sometimes, too.

That side of John was so rarely seen now that their mom was gone.

Dean sighed.

"Hey..."

There was a pause before the word was said again more insistently and drawn out with the whine of a four-year old who felt ignored by a daydreaming big brother.

"Heeey..."

Dean blinked as he felt a small hand tug on the sleeve of his coat and looked down at the kid currently hanging on his arm. "What?"

"I want the Frisbee," Sam replied, pointing at the red plastic disc well beyond his reach from the ground. "Remember?" he asked, his tone implying that he knew Dean had been thinking about other things.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I remember," he returned.

"Then gimme," Sam demanded, all grabby hands as he motioned again toward the Frisbee.

Dean arched an eyebrow, sensing a mood shift with his little brother. "Excuse me?" he challenged, inwardly cringing at how much he sounded like a mother scolding a bad-mannered child.

But if he didn't teach Sam how to behave, then no one would.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the indirect reprimand, knowing Dean was giving him a second chance to ask more politely. "Um...gimme, _please..._?" he rephrased.

Dean twitched a smile at his brother's questioning tone, like the four-year old didn't know quite what to say but figured adding "please" to the demand was a good place to start.

"Please..." Sam repeated, batting those big eyes of his.

Dean snorted. "That doesn't work on me, Sammy," he reminded, even though it was true only half the time.

And now wasn't one of those times.

Because the kid was too adorable with those pink cheeks and that beanie pulled down over his head causing his floppy hair to stick out beneath the knit fabric.

"Please?" Sam said once more, continuing to work those eyes.

"Ugh. Fine," Dean relented, shaking his head at allowing himself to be played by a four-year old. "But I don't know why you want it back," he further commented about the Frisbee. "You can't throw worth shit."

Sam glared at Dean's snarky truth. "You said a bad word."

Dean rolled his eyes, hoping Sam's fixation with pointing that out these days would soon pass. The kid should certainly not be surprised by anything he heard having grown up with John's expressively colorful vocabulary.

And like father, like oldest son...

Because truthfully, Dean _liked_ swearing and couldn't wait until he was old enough to get away with saying _fuck_. That was going to be awesome.

Dean smiled at the thought and then glanced at Sam. "Get over it," he advised his brother about the bad word. "And besides, it's true. You can't throw worth shit."

Sam's glare intensified. "Shut up," he replied with a pout. "You're mean."

"Right," Dean agreed dryly. "'Cause that's what mean big brothers do – spend all morning freezing their ass off and tripping over a puppy while trying to teach their little brother how to throw a stupid Frisbee."

Sam said nothing in response; Dean's sharp tone hurting his feelings but his words also causing Sam to blink at the sudden realization that Dean was right...and _he_ was the one currently being a brat.

Because Dean could've done any number of things that morning other than play with Sam.

But Dean had chosen Sam...just like he always did.

Sam sighed and glanced down at Rumsfeld as the puppy pawed at his leg, the dog expressing his eagerness to resume _trying_ to play with the Frisbee.

Maybe this next time it would actually work.

But Sam wasn't in the mood to play anymore.

"Stop," he complained, pushing Rumsfeld away.

The puppy didn't obey, thinking this was a new game, and playfully lunged at Sam's leg again; his accompanying barks excitedly high-pitched.

Sam scowled. "I said _stop_," he snapped and once again pushed the puppy back.

Rumsfeld obediently paused at the repeated command but tilted his head in confusion as he stared at the kid who had never before refused his attention.

Feeling a twinge of guilt at the puppy's expression, Sam looked away, glancing back up at his brother as Dean continued to stare at him as well; the eight-year old clearly annoyed by the four-year old's attitude.

Sam shifted uncomfortably beneath Dean's intense gaze, knowing he should apologize for his grouchy behavior but feeling tired and hungry and out of sorts; his usual energy and happy mood zapped by having unexpectedly reached his limit for the day as his body still tried to recover from how sick he had been over the past week.

Perhaps he had overestimated himself this morning when he had asked to play outside.

Because while Sam had wanted to play in the snow, he was tired now...and his throat hurt...and his cough still lingered, even though Sam had alternated between clearing his throat and swallowing hard to keep the cough from sneaking out.

But that had only worked half the time; the other half, the cough had escaped, climbing up Sam's scratchy throat and attracting Dean's hawk-like attention.

Sam had seen his brother look at him across the yard every time he had coughed throughout the morning.

Dean's concern increasing each time another cough had erupted from Sam's small body as the eight-year old's big brother radar had remained on alert for signs of recurring illness in the four-year old.

And that instinctive radar was on alert even now, Dean frowning as Sam unexpectedly coughed, the sound harsher than it had been all morning.

Dean reached for his brother – instantly forgetting that he was annoyed with the kid – and rubbed Sam's back as the coughing continued for several seconds, then ended with Sam shrugging as though it wasn't a big deal.

Dean arched a skeptical eyebrow, nonverbally calling bullshit.

Sam shrugged again and then sighed, the sound slightly congested.

Dean's frown deepened, not liking the new development of returning congestion – especially in addition to Sam's cough – and deciding it was time they headed inside.

Rumsfeld whined in the strained silence that had settled between the brothers; the puppy standing between them in the snow as his gaze flickered back and forth.

Sam quirked a smile, his mood momentarily improving. "S'okay, Rummy," he soothed, petting the dog's head – surprisingly broad for a puppy – and then glanced up at Dean through the fringe of bangs tickling his forehead. "M'sorry," he mumbled, slightly embarrassed for how he had acted seconds before.

Because Sam knew that no other kid had a brother like he did; that no other big brothers took care of their little brothers like Dean took care of him; that most eight-year olds didn't want to play with four-year olds...but Dean always played with him and taught him stuff and never complained.

Dean was the best big brother – was the best _everything_ – and Sam was lucky to have him.

Sam sniffled, wiping the back of his gloved hand across his suddenly runny nose as the crisp winter wind made his cheeks tingle and burn. "Dean..." he prompted when Dean only nodded at his apology but didn't otherwise respond. "Did you hear me?" he checked shyly. "I'm sorry."

Dean nodded again.

Sam chewed on his bottom lip nervously, his teeth irritating his already chapped mouth as he blinked up at the silent eight-year old. "Are you mad?"

Dean twitched a smile at his little brother, the kid always being adorable and irresistibly sweet when he was worried about someone being mad at him.

"Dean..."

Dean sighed. "No, Sammy..." he finally assured, brushing Sam's bangs from his eyes and tucking the wayward strands beneath the edge of the kid's beanie. "I'm not mad," he replied honestly, shaking off his earlier annoyance and reminding himself that the four-year old's cranky mood most likely had more to do with Sam being tired and hungry than with anything else.

After all, they had been playing outside all morning, and it was close to lunchtime now...which meant it was also close to naptime.

And whether Sam liked it or not, the kid was definitely taking a nap.

Especially since Dean knew that Sam expected to stay up until midnight with him and John and Bobby to ring in the New Year.

And that was fine.

Dean _wanted_ his brother to stay up with them and had already told Sam that he could, even double-checking the plan with John.

But there was no way Sam would be awake at midnight if the kid didn't get a nap.

Not to mention that a tired Sammy was a grouchy Sammy...and Dean had no desire to mix his moody little brother with their equally moody father.

Dean glanced across the yard at John still working on the Impala in the garage and inwardly cringed at what a disaster that would be.

Quick-tempered John and stubborn Sam going head-to-head?

No thanks.

Dean already had an uneasy suspicion that he would have to referee such face-offs between his dad and brother in the years ahead...and he was in no rush to begin that role tonight.

Sam coughed quietly, and Dean instantly refocused his attention, staring at the clearly exhausted four-year old standing in front of him and giving the kid a visual once-over.

Vaguely wondering if Sam's cheeks were pink from exposure to cold temperatures and slight windburn, or because of returning fever...

Dean frowned at the possibility.

Sam rubbed his eyes with the back of his gloved hand and yawned while he scratched behind Rumsfeld's ears.

The puppy leaned into Sam's touch with a contented grunt, clearly happy that the kid's loving nature had returned.

Sam smiled and then yawned again, noticing that Dean was staring at him. "What?"

Dean shook his head. "Nothin'. You just look sleepy."

Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the seemingly random observation. "I'm not," he automatically denied, the word muffled by another yawn.

"Mmhmm..." Dean hummed doubtfully but let the issue drop, already having the afternoon plans mapped out for his brother.

Because Dean knew Sam would bitch about being made to take a nap "like a baby," but he also knew the kid would be asleep before he could even cover him with a blanket – especially since Dean knew the four-year old wasn't feeling as well as he had when he had first gotten up that morning.

Sam hadn't mentioned it, but Dean knew his brother and could read the signs – the grumpy attitude, the runny nose, the slightly hoarse voice from an undoubtedly scratchy throat, the lingering cough, the congested inhalations through a stuffy nose, the weak squint of tired eyes...

Oh, yeah.

Dean knew the signs, and it was time for them to go inside before Sam started feeling any worse than he already did.

Because being outside in the snow had been fun, but the chilly weather and the exertion of playing had worn out Sam more than the kid would admit...and maybe even more than the kid realized.

...which was fine.

Sam didn't have to admit it _or_ realize it.

Big brother already knew.

And Dean was on top of this situation; was going to make sure Sam was fed lunch, warmed up, and then tucked in for a nice long nap.

...which sounded nice.

Because Dean loved the kid – he truly did, more than anything or anyone else – but he wouldn't mind a little break from his little brother...especially after spending the entire morning trying to teach that same little brother how to throw a Frisbee.

It was just too bad that almost three hours later they had nothing to show for the tedious, monotonous lessons except proof that Sam possessed zero skills when it came to throwing a Frisbee.

Dean smiled, looking forward to teasing the kid later...and also looking forward to his two hours or so of catching up on his comic books undisturbed while Sam slept.

It was going to be awesome.

But Dean felt his smile instantly slip as Sam suddenly turned toward the truck they had been standing in front of – the kid making no comment as he braced one hand against the vehicle's grill while lifting his boot-clad foot toward its bumper.

Dean scowled at Sam's obvious intention of climbing up on the truck himself to retrieve the unruly Frisbee still resting beyond the kid's reach on the hood.

"Sam..."

Sam ignored him.

Dean shook his head at his impatient little brother, sensing Sam's earlier moodiness return. "Stop," he told the four-year old, placing a restraining hand on the kid's chest. "I'll get it."

Just like he had all morning – Dean having lost count of how many times he had climbed up on the various vehicles lining the salvage yard to recover the Frisbee since the red plastic disc seemed to land everywhere _except_ where Sam wanted it to.

"No," Sam stubbornly refused, straining against Dean's hold. "_I'll_ get it," he countered and continued to make efforts to do so.

Dean snorted, arching an eyebrow as Sam's foot barely reached the height of the truck's frame; the kid's leg shaking as the toe of his snow-covered boot struggled to touch the edge of the vehicle's bumper.

"Sammy..."

"I can do it," Sam insisted, the four words having just left his mouth when he gasped softly in startled surprise.

"Whoa!" Dean blurted and grabbed Sam as the kid's boot slipped on the icy surface of the truck's bumper, causing the four-year old to stumble backwards in the snow.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

Rumsfeld barked nervously and scampered away to avoid being crushed by a clumsy kid.

But Sam remained on his feet.

Dean's reaction quick and his grip firm as he fisted the front of Sam's coat and held his brother steady.

Sam swallowed as he held onto Dean as well; his instinct having been to reach for his big brother when he had begun to fall...and his small gloved hands still grasped Dean's forearm even now that the accident had been prevented.

There was a beat of silence.

Rumsfeld cautiously crept back to stand beside the brothers.

Sam swallowed again, his eyes wide as he stared at Dean. "That was kinda scary," the four-year old needlessly commented; his expression and shaky voice already testifying to how momentarily frightened he had felt.

Dean glared, freshly annoyed by the too-close call. "What were you saying about getting it yourself?" he asked sharply about Sam's intention to retrieve the Frisbee, shaking his head at his impatient, stubborn little brother.

Sam blinked back at him, looking appropriately embarrassed by his foolish attempt to climb on the truck. "M'sorry."

Dean ignored the apology, his anger fueled by the fear of what might have happened. "You could've gotten hurt, Sam," he pointed out. "What if I hadn't been here? What if you had fell and hit your head or something? Then what?"

Sam nodded shyly. "I know," he agreed, taking a step back as Dean released his hold on his coat. "M'sorry."

"You should be," Dean snapped as he turned and effortlessly stepped up on the truck's bumper, snatching the Frisbee from the hood and shaking the snow from the red disc.

Sam watched, glancing at Rumsfeld as the dog whined at Dean's harsh tone.

The strained silence stretched on as Dean pinned Sam with a hard stare; the older brother effectively communicating how pissed he would've been if the kid had gotten hurt over something stupid.

Rumsfeld whined again.

Sam squirmed beneath Dean's gaze as he stood in the snow. "M'sorry," he said once more, unable to stop himself, and then coughed. "Please don't be mad, Dean."

"Too late," Dean returned, because he _was_ mad.

He hated it when the kid scared him like that.

"Here..." Dean told his brother, handing the four-year old the Frisbee.

Sam accepted it and sighed, the congested sound ending with another cough as he nervously shifted from one foot to the other...and then coughed again.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "That's it," he announced. "We're going inside."

Sam's eyes widened. "Why?" he protested. "'Cause you're mad?"

"No," Dean returned, having made the decision before Sam's I-can-do-it-myself stunt, and grabbed the four-year old's hand as he started walking toward Bobby's house. "'Cause I don't want you to get sick again."

Sam shook his head as he trudged through the snow beside his brother with Rumsfeld following behind them. "I'm not sick," he countered, even though his throat was kinda sore...and his voice was slightly hoarse...and his chest maybe hurt a little from breathing cold air all morning.

Dean cut his eyes at the four-year old. "Maybe not," he allowed about Sam's denial that he was sick. "But you were sick two days ago. And I don't like the way you're sounding now, so we're going inside. It's time for lunch anyway."

"But Uncle Bobby's not back yet," Sam pointed out, knowing they had been waiting for the old hunter to return from the grocery store since there was no food in the house. "What are we gonna eat if Uncle Bobby's not back yet?"

"I'll find something," Dean assured as they walked.

The eight-year old knowing there was at least one more serving left in the cereal box from earlier that morning. Dean having intentionally not given himself as much breakfast as usual because he had wanted to save a little for Sam in case something like this happened – Bobby's trip to town taking longer than expected – and the kid had to eat cereal for lunch, too.

It was Plan B, but it would have to suffice.

Because Plan A had been chicken and stars soup for lunch, which Dean _really_ wanted Sam to have now that the kid was cold and possibly getting sick again.

But whatever...

Dean was used to Plan A rarely working out.

The eight-year old sighed and then frowned as he noticed that even though he was still holding Sam's hand, the four-year old was lagging behind as they walked.

"Hey..." Dean called to his brother, shaking the kid's hand to further attract Sam's attention. "What's with you?"

"I'm tired," Sam complained, rubbing the back of his gloved hand across his runny nose.

Dean arched an eyebrow at the admission, slightly concerned that the four-year old would voluntarily confess that.

"And you're walking too fast," Sam added, the whine in his voice further proof that it was definitely lunchtime, promptly followed by naptime.

"Fine," Dean allowed – because maybe he _was_ walking a little too fast in his eagerness to get Sam inside. He stopped walking. "There," he told his brother. "Better?"

"Mmhmm," Sam agreed, the snow splattered on the front of his jeans offering evidence for how quickly his short legs had been moving through the ankle-deep snow as he had tried to keep up with his big brother's pace.

Dean quirked a smile at the cute kid blinking up at him as they stood in Bobby's yard and then glanced over his shoulder, surprised by how far they still had to walk to reach the house.

Guess John had sent them even further across the salvage yard than Dean had originally thought...and for some reason that irritated the eight-year old.

Were he and Sam so obnoxious that their dad had to ban them to the opposite side of the yard to get any peace?

Geez...

Dean frowned, directing his attention to the garage where John continued to work and feeling freshly annoyed by how their dad had acted earlier – both at the breakfast table _and_ when the Frisbee had accidently ended up in the garage.

Would it kill John to remember that he was a dad for five minutes and actually play with them instead of focusing on a hunt or working on the Impala?

But Dean guessed that was too much to ask.

After all, people were _dying _– Dean could never forget because John reminded him constantly – and the Impala was important.

The car apparently being more important than him and Sam...along with those dying strangers being more important, too.

Dean sighed, shaking his head in frustration, and then glanced back at his brother as Sam gasped softly.

"Rummy..." the four-year old scolded as Rumsfeld suddenly snatched the Frisbee from the kid's grasp; the puppy having bided his time until the exact moment of surprise attack.

Dean twitched a smile as Rumsfeld ran through the snow with the red plastic disc securely held in his mouth, the puppy clearly proud of his ability to steal a Frisbee from a four-year old.

"Stupid mutt," Dean commented fondly and rolled his eyes.

"He's not stupid," Sam immediately defended. "And he's not a mutt, neither. He's a Rottwheeler."

Dean laughed at the four-year old's attempt to pronounce the breed's name. "Rott_weiler_," he corrected.

Sam scowled. "I know. That's what I said."

Dean rolled his eyes again. "Fine," he agreed with another laugh, watching Rumsfeld continue to frolic by himself in the snow with the Frisbee before glancing back at Sam and squeezing the kid's hand still held in his grasp. "You ready, Sammy?"

Because Dean could see his brother getting more tired and grumpier by the second and standing in the yard wasn't getting the kid fed and settled for a nap.

Sam didn't directly respond to Dean's question but made a strange sound as he yawned and coughed at the same time.

Dean snorted. "Guess I'll take that as a yes..." he commented and gently pulled on the four-year old's arm. "Let's go."

Sam nodded, obediently walking with his brother as he glanced over his shoulder at Rumsfeld still playing by himself in the snow with the Frisbee. "C'mon, Rummy..."

"He'll come," Dean assured, knowing wherever Sam went the puppy was sure to follow.

The brothers walked for several seconds before both halted and turned at the sound of John's voice calling from across the yard, proof that their dad had been paying at least partial attention to them throughout the morning since he had noticed they were currently on the move.

"Where are you going?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes at their dad's question and return a smartass reply.

Because wasn't it obvious where they were going? _Inside. _

And why did John care where they went as long as they left him alone?

Wasn't that what their dad wanted – to work in a world uninterrupted by the inconvenience of kids, puppies, and rogue Frisbees?

Dean sighed.

"Where are you going?" John asked again, his tone implying he didn't like Dean's delay in answering.

Sam glanced at Dean, recognizing their dad's tone, and then unexpectedly leaned his beanie-covered head against his big brother's arm and sighed – the sound tired and congested while the gesture was that of a four-year old who got clingy when he didn't feel good.

Dean frowned at the new symptom of clinginess and squeezed his brother's hand as the kid continued to rest against him. "Hang on a sec, Sammy..." he quietly urged the four-year old and then refocused on John still staring at him expectantly from across the snow-covered yard. "We're going inside," he told their dad as John stood at the edge of the garage.

Behind them, Rumsfeld barked as the puppy romped in the snow.

John nodded at Dean's explanation, his gaze flickering to Sam as his four-year old rested against his eight-year old. "Sammy..." he called, his expression and tone slightly concerned as he seemed to realize all was not well with their youngest.

"He's fine," Dean assured quickly, sometimes hating it when John suddenly wanted to act like a father. "I've got him."

John nodded again; having no doubt that whatever was going on with Sam, Dean had it under control and would take care of the kid.

But still...

John sighed, often regretting he had been so slack about claiming his role as Sam's caretaker...and Dean's, for that matter.

But it was too late now.

Four years into this hunter's life, all roles had been firmly established – Dean looked after Sam...Dean looked after himself...and John was left wondering where he fit in.

Not that John could blame anyone except himself for their family dynamics.

After all, he had been the one to routinely leave a six-month old infant in the care of a four-year old kid while he had drank excessively, researched obsessively, and hunted too damn much.

It was no wonder that Dean had become so self-reliant at the ripe old age of eight and so possessive of his little brother – "I've got him," being the most repeated phrase Dean used when talking to John about Sam.

_I've got him. _

Meaning don't touch him, don't worry about him, and don't try to help me with him because _I've got him_.

John smiled sadly as he continued to stare at his kids across the yard, knowing he should be proud of how reliable his oldest was, of how protective Dean was of Sam.

And John _was_ proud.

He was _damn proud_ of Dean.

But John also felt a deep sense of regret for things that were too late to change now.

And being a father to his boys was at the top of his list of wishes for second chances.

John sighed, blinking as the telephone suddenly rang on the far wall of the garage...and then blinking again at the remembered possibility that it might be Pastor Jim finally returning Bobby's call.

Ignoring the fact that Bobby wouldn't like him answering the phone at his house, John crossed the garage; tossing the socket wrench he had been holding onto the work table before picking up the receiver of the phone that was in the middle of its third ring.

"Hello?" John asked, knowing Bobby would also scowl at him not saying "Singer Salvage".

But whatever...

Bobby wasn't there...and what the old hunter didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Hello...?" John asked again, glancing over his shoulder at his kids still standing in the middle of the snow-covered yard staring at him.

Dean being clearly curious as to who was calling while his expression was also disapproving of John's blatant disregard for Bobby's known rule of nobody answering the phone at his house except _him_.

And Sam just looked tired and cranky as he continued to lean against his brother's arm.

John sighed, his attention flickering to Rumsfeld as the puppy came to sit beside the boys and stare at him as well.

"John...?" a familiar voice called from the opposite end of the line.

John blinked, instantly refocused on the phone call. "Jim?" he returned and smiled with relief. "Damn, I'm glad you called back," he heartily told the Pastor and then paused, rolling his eyes as he endured Jim's well wishes that were common in the holiday season. "Yeah, yeah...Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and all that crap. Listen..."

John paused again, turning back to his sons and motioning for them to come to the garage.

Dean narrowed his eyes in obvious annoyance at being summoned but obeyed John's nonverbal command, gently shrugging Sam's head off of his arm and pulling the four-year old forward as they began to walk through the snow.

"I thought we were going inside," Sam whined, glancing at Rumsfeld as the puppy followed them.

"We are," Dean assured his little brother. "As soon as we see what Dad wants, we're going in. And then you can eat lunch and take a nap, okay?"

Sam coughed as they walked "'Kay," he agreed.

Dean frowned at how easy that was.

"M'hot," Sam complained, tugging at the scarf still wrapped around his neck.

Dean's frown deepened. "Leave it," he told his brother, sweeping the Sam's hand away. "You can lose the layers in a minute when we go inside."

Although Dean was suspicious that a returning fever was the reason Sam was suddenly hot, not the layers of clothes the kid was wearing.

The eight-year old sighed, hoping he could tap at least one more dose of children's Tylenol out of that practically empty bottle he had left in the kitchen...and hoping that Bobby came home soon with a fresh supply of the medicine.

They were probably going to need it.

Dean sighed.

"Did you find out anything new about the case?" John was asking over the phone when the brothers and Rumsfeld finally reached the edge of the garage and then nodded his approval as Jim confirmed that he _did_ have new information to share.

Dean sighed again, the sound loud enough to attract John's attention, and then blinked expectantly when John turned to look at him.

Because if their dad wanted him to do something, then John needed to hurry the hell up – after all, Dean had a potentially sick kid to take care of and didn't have time to waste running errands for John.

John arched an eyebrow, sensing Dean's attitude, and then refocused on the phone he still held. "Wait a minute, Jim..." he stalled, interrupting the Pastor as Jim launched into a detailed explanation of what he had found out about the case John was working.

John redirected his attention to Dean, lowering the receiver from his mouth as he spoke to his oldest. "Go inside and get my journal."

Dean glared at the order...because he _knew_ John was going to send him on a stupid errand like this. And why couldn't John just take the call inside and get his own crap?

John glared back. "Go," he told his oldest. "And bring that folder of articles, too..." he added.

Dean sighed harshly, wishing he could coolly advise his dad to go get his own damn journal and articles...and then live to tell about giving such a reply.

But Dean knew better than to sass John.

And John knew that Dean was still considering doing it anyway.

Father and oldest son stared at each other.

"_Go_," John growled, his tone promising unpleasant consequences if he had to say it again.

Dean sighed once more – knowing he was pushing his luck as he continued to stall – and glanced at Sam standing beside him; the kid uncharacteristically quiet, still holding his hand and leaning against him.

John followed Dean's gaze, slightly softening at the realization of why Dean had not yet followed his order – because his oldest was concerned about Sam.

And John had to admit the four-year old looked tired and flushed.

...which would be just John's luck for his youngest to get sick again the day before they were supposed to leave Bobby's and get back on the road.

John sighed. "Yeah, I'm here," he spoke into the phone when Jim asked if he was still there. "Just hang on a sec..." He glanced back at Dean. "I'll watch him," he told his oldest about Sam.

Dean looked doubtful, resisting the urge to snort dismissively at such an offer – because no way was he going to leave Sam outside with John.

"He'll be fine," John assured, still talking about their youngest.

Dean glanced at his brother, thinking maybe he would just take the kid inside with him now; would get Sam warm and fed and settled and _then_ come back outside with John's journal and those articles.

John shook his head, knowing Dean's thoughts. "I'm not waiting that long," he informed. "And I'm not telling you again."

Dean swallowed, recognizing the annoyance in their dad's tone and expression at his continued hesitation to leave Sam in John's care. Not to mention the resulting implication that Dean didn't think John could be trusted to watch a four-year old.

"Go get what I told you to get from Bobby's house," John continued, pinning Dean with a hard stare even as he kept his voice eerily calm. "I'll watch Sam." He paused. "_Go..._"

And Dean knew his time was up; that the only reason their dad had been _this_ patient for _this_ long was because Pastor Jim was indirectly listening on the opposite end of the telephone John still held.

Dean sighed. "Fine," he reluctantly agreed – realizing the sooner he went, the sooner he could come back for Sam – and turned his attention to the sleepy, clingy kid leaning against his arm. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked up at him.

"You stay here with Dad for a minute and be good, okay? I'll be right back..."

Sam glanced at John like he was a stranger and then glanced back at Dean, clearly not liking the idea of being left with their dad.

"I know," Dean quietly agreed. "But I'll be _right back_, okay?"

Sam sighed and nodded, because had heard the conversation between John and his brother and knew this wasn't a choice. "Okay," the four-year old replied. "But hurry..." he added; his voice a hoarse, congested, whiney whisper.

Dean quirked a smile at his bossy little brother. "I will," he promised, pulling his hand away from Sam's and affectionately rubbing the kid's beanie-covered head as he turned away from the garage and began running across the snow-covered yard toward Bobby's house.

As he ran, Dean hoped he wasn't making a mistake by leaving Sam in John's care, even if it would only be for a few minutes.

* * *

_**TBC**_


End file.
